of his son, Dr. Charles Davenant, so well known to the world by his
political, writings; but, whether his genius was less fit than his
father's for such an administration, or the king's Company were really
superior to his in acting, we cannot determine; but they gained upon
the town, and Dr. Davenant was obliged to have recourse to the dramatic
opera, rich scenes, and fine music, to support the stage on which
Betterton played. The Dr. himself wrote the Opera of Circe, which came
first on the stage in 1675, and was received with, such applause, as
gave hopes of succeeding in this new way. The same year a Pastoral,
called Calista, or the Chaste Nymph, written by Mr. Crowne, at the
desire of queen Katherine, was represented at court; and the ladies,
Mary and Anne, daughters to the duke of York, played parts in it. On
this occasion Mr. Betterton instructed the actors, and Mrs. Betterton
gave lessons to the princesses; in grateful remembrance of which queen
Anne settled a pension of 100 l. per annum upon her. During this time an
emulation subsisted between the two companies, and a theatrical war was
proclaimed aloud, in which the town reaped the advantage, by seeing
the parts performed with the greater life. The duke's company however
maintained it's superiority, by means of the new-invented artillery, of
music, machines, and scenery, and other underhand dealings, and bribing
of actors in the opposite faction from performing their duty. By these
measures, a coalition was effected, and the two companies joined
together, and being united formed one of the perfectest that ever filled
a stage, in 1682. It was in this united company that the merit of
Betterton shone with unrivalled lustre, and having survived the great
actors on whose model he had formed himself he was at liberty to
discover his genius in its full extent, by replacing many of them with
advantage in these very characters, in which, during their life-times,
they had been thought inimitable; and all who have a taste for scenical
entertainments cannot but thank the present laureat, for preserving for
them so lively a portrait of Betterton, and painting him in so true a
light, that without the imputation of blind adulation, he may be justly
stiled the British Roscius.
This account is too important and picturesque to be here omitted; and
it would be an injury to Betterton not to shew him in that commanding
light, in which the best judge of that species of excellence has placed
him.
"Betterton was an actor, as Shakespear was an author, both without
competitors! form'd for the mutual assistance, and illustration of each
others genius! how Shakespear wrote, all men who have a taste for nature
may read, and know--but with what higher rapture would he still be read,
could they conceive how Betterton play'd him! then might they know, the
one was born alone to speak what the other only knew to write! Pity it
is, that the momentary beauties flowing from an harmonious elocution
cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record! that the animated
graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and
motion that presents them; or at belt can but faintly glimmer through
the memory, or imperfect attestation of a few surviving spectators.
Could how Betterton spoke, be as easily known as what he spoke; then
might you see the muse of Shakespear in her triumph, with all their
beauties in their belt array, rising into real life, and charming her
beholders. But alas! since all this is so far out of the reach of
description, how shall I shew you Betterton? Should I therefore tell
you, that all the Othellos, Hamlets, Hotspurs, Mackbeths, and Brutus's,
whom you may have seen since his time have fallen far short of him: This
still would give you no idea of his particular excellence. Let us see
then what a particular comparison may do! whether that may yet draw him
nearer to you?
You have seen a Hamlet perhaps, who, on the first appearance of his
father's spirit, has thrown himself into all the straining vociferation
requisite to express rage and fury, and the house has thundered with
applause; tho' the misguided actor was all the while (as Shakespear
terms it) tearing a passion into rags--am the more bold to offer you
this particular instance, because the late Mr. Addison, while I sate by
him, to see this scene acted, made the same observation, asking me with
some surprize, if I thought Hamlet should be in so violent a passion
with the Ghost, which though it might have astonished, it had not
provok'd him? for you may observe that in this beautiful speech, the
passion never rises beyond an almost breathless astonishment, or an
impatience, limited by filial reverence, to enquire into the suspected
wrongs that may have rais'd him from his peaceful tomb! and a desire
to know what a spirit so seemingly distress, might wish or enjoin a
sorrowful son to execute towards his future quiet in the grave? this was
the light into which Betterton threw this scene; which he open'd with
a pause of mute amazement! then rising slowly, to a solemn, trembling
voice, he made the Ghost equally terrible to the spectator, as to
himself! and in the descriptive part of the natural emotions which the
ghastly vision gave him, the boldness of his expostulation was still
governed by decency, manly, but not braving; his voice never rising into
that seeming outrage, or wild defiance of what he naturally rever'd. But
alas! to preserve this medium, between mouthing, and meaning too little,
to keep the attention more pleasingly awake, by a tempered spirit, than
by meer vehemence of voice, is of all the master-strokes of an actor the
most difficult to reach. In this none yet have equall'd Betterton. But
I am unwilling to shew his superiority only by recounting the errors
of those, who now cannot answer to them; let their farther failings
therefore be forgotten! or rather shall I in some measure excuse them?
for I am not yet sure, that they might not be as much owing to the false
judgment of the spectator, as the actor. While the million are so apt to
be transported, when the drum of their ear is so roundly rattled; while
they take the life of elocution to lie in the strength of the lungs,
it is no wonder the actor, whose end is applause, should be so often
tempted, at this easy rate, to excite it. Shall I go a little farther?
and allow that this extreme is more pardonable than its opposite error.
I mean that dangerous affectation of the monotone, or solemn sameness of
pronunciation, which to my ear is insupportable; for of all faults that
so frequently pass upon the vulgar, that of flatness will have the
fewest admirers. That this is an error of ancient standing seems evident
by what Hamlet says, in his instructions to the players, viz.
Be not too tame, neither, &c.
The Actor, doubtless, is as strongly ty'd down to the rule of Horace, as
the writer.
Si vis me flere, dolendum est
Primum ipsi tibi----
He that feels not himself the passion he would raise, will talk to a
sleeping audience: But this never was the fault of Betterton; and it has
often amaz'd me, to see those who soon came after him, throw out in
some parts of a character, a just and graceful spirit, which Betterton
himself could not but have applauded. And yet in the equally shining
passages of the same character, have heavily dragg'd the sentiment
along, like a dead weight; with a long ton'd voice, and absent eye, as
if they had fairly forgot what they were about: If you have never made
this observation, I am contented you should not know where to apply it.
A farther excellence in Betterton, was that he could vary his spirit to
the different characters he acted. Those wild impatient starts, that
fierce and flaming fire, which he threw into Hotspur, never came from
the unruffled temper of his Brutus (for I have more than once seen a
Brutus as warm as Hotspur) when the Betterton Brutus was provoked, in
his dispute with Cassius, his spirit flew only to his eye; his steady
look alone supply'd that terror, which he disdain'd, an intemperance in
his voice should rise to. Thus, with a settled dignity of contempt, like
an unheeding rock, he repell'd upon himself the foam of Cassius. Perhaps
the very words of Shakespear will better let you into my meaning:
Must I give way, and room, to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman flares?
And a little after,
There is no terror, Cassius, in your looks! &c.
Not but, in some part of this scene, where he reproaches Cassius, his
temper is not under this suppression, but opens into that warmth which
becomes a man of virtue; yet this is that hasty spark of anger, which
Brutus himself endeavours to excuse.
But with whatever strength of nature we see the poet shew, at once, the
philosopher and the heroe, yet the image of the actor's excellence will
be still imperfect to you, unless language cou'd put colours in our
words to paint the voice with.
Et si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum, is enjoining an impossibility.
The most that a Vandyke can arrive at, is to make his portraits of great
persons seem to think; a Shakespear goes farther yet, and tells you what
his pictures thought; a Betterton steps beyond 'em both, and calls them
from the grave, to breathe, and be themselves again, in feature, speech,
and motion. When the skilful actor shews you all these powers united,
he gratifies at once your eye, your ear, and your understanding. To
conceive the pleasure rising from such harmony, you must have been
present at it! 'tis not to be told you!
Thus was Betterton happy in his fortune, in the notice of his sovereign,
in his fame and character, and in a general respect of all ranks of
life; thus happy might he have continued, had he not been persuaded to
attempt becoming rich, and unluckily engaged in a scheme that swept away
all his capital, and left him in real distress. This accident fell
out in 1692; and is of too particular a kind to pass unnoticed. Mr.
Betterton had a great many friends amongst the wealthy traders in the
city, and so amiable was his private life, that all who knew him were
concerned, and interested in his success: Amongst these, there was a
gentleman, whose name the author of his life thinks proper to conceal,
who entered into the strictest amity with this actor. This gentleman in
the year 1692 was concerned in an adventure to the East-Indies, upon the
footing then allowed by the company's charter, which vessels so employed
were stiled interlopers. The project of success was great, the gain
unusually high; and this induced Mr. Betterton, to whom his friend
offered any share in the business he pleased, to think of so large a sum
as eight-thousand pounds; but it was not for himself, as he had no such
sum in his power: and whoever considers the situation of the stage at
that time will need no other argument to convince him of it. Yet he had
another friend whom, he was willing to oblige, which was the famous Dr.
Radcliffe; so Mr. Betterton advanced somewhat more than two-thousand
pounds, which was his all, and the Dr. made it up eight-thousand. The
vessel sailed to the East-Indies, and made as prosperous a voyage as
those concerned in her could wish, and the war with France being then,
very warm, the captain very prudently came home north about, and arrived
safe in Ireland; but in his passage from thence he was taken by the
French. His cargo was upwards of 120,000 l. which ruined Mr. Betterton,
and broke the fortune and heart of his friend in the city: As for doctor
Radcliffe, he expressed great concern for Mr. Betterton, but none for
himself; the Dr. merrily consoled himself with observing, 'that it was
only trotting up 200 pair of stairs more, and things are as they were.'
This accident, however fatal to Mr. Betterton's fortune, yet proved
not so to his peace, for he bore it without murmur, and even without
mention; so far from entertaining resentment against his friend in the
city, who doubtless meant him well, he continued his intimacy till
his death, and after his decease took his only daughter under his
protection, and watched over her education till she thought proper to
dispose of herself in marriage to Mr. Bowman the player, whose behaviour
was such, as to gain the esteem of all that knew him; he has not been
many years dead, and reflected credit on the reports of the excellency
of the old stage.
Such the virtue, such the honour of Mr. Betterton! who in his private
character was as amiable as any he borrowed from the poets, and
therefore was always deservedly considered as the head of the theatre,
though vetted there with very little power. The managers, as the
companies were now united, exercised the mod despotic stage-tyranny; and
obliged our author to remonstrate to them the hardships they inflicted
on their actors, and represent that bad policy of the few, forgetting
their obligations to the many. This language in the ears of the
theatrical ministry, sounded like treason; and therefore, instead of
considering how to remedy the mischiefs complained of, they bent their
thoughts to get rid of their monitor: as if the not hearing of faults
was equivalent to mending them. It was with this view they began to give
away some of Betterton's first parts to young actors,[4] supposing this
would abate his influence. This policy ruined them, and assisted him:
The public resented their having plays ill acted when they knew they
might have better.
The best players attached themselves wholly to Betterton, and desired
him to turn his thoughts on some method of procuring himself and them
justice. Thus theatrical despotism produced its own definition, and the
very steps taken to render Betterton desperate, pointed out the way for
his deliverance. Mr. Betterton, who had a general acquaintance with
people of fashion, represented his case to them, and at last by the
interposition of the earl of Dorset, a patent was granted him for
building a new play-house in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, which he effected by
a subscription. The patentees, in order to make head against them, got
over to their party Mr. Williams, and Mrs. Mountford, both eminent
players; they had also recruits from the country, but with all the
art of which they were capable, they continued still unequal to Mr.
Betterton's company. The new theatre was opened in 1695, with very great
advantages: Mr. Congreve accepted of a share with this company, as Mr.
Dryden had formerly with the king's; and the first play they acted
was Congreve's Comedy of Love for Love. The king honoured it with his
presence, there was a large and splendid audience, Mr. Betterton spoke a
Prologue, and Mrs. Bracegirdle an Epilogue suited to the occasion, and
it appeared by the reception they met with, that the town knew how to
reward the merit of those the patentees used so ill. But with all these
vast advantages, Betterton's company were not able to maintain this flow
of prosperity, beyond two or three seasons: Mr. Congreve was a slow
writer, Vanbrugh, and Mr. Cibber, who wrote for the other house, were
more expeditious; and if they did not finish, they at least writ
pleasing Comedies.
The frequency of new pieces, however, gave such a turn in their favour,
that Betterton's company with all their merit, had been undone, had not
the Mourning Bride, and the Way of the World, come like reprieves, and
saved them from the last gasp[5]. In a few years however, it appearing
plainly, that without a new support from their friends, it was
impossible for them to maintain their superiority, or independance; the
patrons of Mr. Betterton set about a new subscription, for building a
theatre in the Hay-market, under the direction of Sir John Vanbrugh,
which was finished in 1706[6]; and was to be conducted upon a new plan;
music and scenery to be intermixed with the drama, which with the
novelty of a new house, was likely to retrieve Mr. Betterton's affairs.
This favour was kindly received by Mr. Betterton; but he was now grown
old, his health and strength much impaired by constant application,
and his fortune still worse than his health; he chose therefore (as a
mutinous spirit, occasioned by disappointments, grew up amongst the
actors) to decline the offer, and so put the whole design under the
conduct of Sir John Vanbrugh, and Mr. Congreve, the latter of whom soon
abandoned it entirely; and Mr. Betterton's strength failing, many of the
old players dying, and other accidents intervening, a reunion of the
companies became absolutely necessary, and soon after took place.
Hitherto, Betterton is considered as at the head of his company, and
the affairs of the stage are naturally connected with his, as the
transactions of a nation are interwoven with the life of a prince. After
our author reached seventy, his infirmities grew upon him greatly, his
fits of the gout were more lasting, and more severe: His circumstances
also, which had not been mended since he took upon him the conduct of
the theatre, grew more necessitous, and all this joined to his wife's
ill state of health, made his condition melancholy, at a time when the
highest affluence could not have made them chearful. Yet under all these
pressures, he kept up his spirit, and though less active, was as serene
as ever. The public in those days, had a grateful remembrance of
the pleasure Betterton had given them, and would not suffer so
distinguished, and so deserving a man, after fifty-years service, to
withdraw, till he had received from them some marks of their favour.
In the spring of 1709 a benefit was granted to Mr. Betterton, and the
play of Love for Love was acted for that purpose. Two of the best
actresses that ever graced the stage appeared on it upon that occasion,
tho' they had long quitted it, to render the benefit more advantageous:
The part of Valentine was performed by Mr. Betterton, Angelica by Mrs.
Bracegirdle, and Mrs. Barry performed that of Frail. The epilogue was
written by Mr. Rowe. Mrs. Bracegirdle, Mrs. Barry, and Mr. Betterton,
appeared on the stage together, and the ladies taking hold of him,
represented his infirmities of age, and pleaded his ancient merit, in a
very natural and moving manner: This epilogue is exquisite in its kind.
The profits arising from that benefit, we are told, amounted to 500 l.
He had also a promise that the favour should be annually continued.
These extraordinary acts of public gratitude had a proper effect upon
Mr. Betterton; who instead of indulging himself on their bounty, exerted
the spirit given by this generosity, in their service, and appeared and
acted as often as his health would permit[7]. On the 20th of September
following, in particular, he performed the part of Hamlet, with such
vivacity, as well as justice, that it gave ample satisfaction to the
best judges. This activity in the winter kept off the gout longer than
usual, but the fit returning in the spring, was the more unlucky, as it
happened at the time of his benefit, when the success of his play was
sure to depend in a great measure upon his own performance. The play he
made choice of was the Maid's Tragedy, in which he acted the part of
Melantius; and notice was accordingly given by his good friend the
Tatler; but the fit intervened; and that he might not disappoint the
town, Mr. Betterton was forced to submit to outward applications, to
reduce the swelling of his feet: Which had such an effect, that he was
able to appear on the stage, though he was obliged to use a slipper. He
acted that day, says the Laureat, with unusual spirit, and briskness,
by which he obtained universal applause; but this could not prevent his
paying a very dear price for these marks of approbation, since the gouty
humour, repelled by fomentations, soon seized upon the nobler parts;
which being perhaps weakened by his extraordinary fatigue on that
occasion, he was not able to make a long resistance: But on the 28th of
April, 1710, he paid the debt to nature; and by his death occasioned the
most undissembled mourning amongst people of rank and fashion.
His behaviour as a man, and his abilities as a player, raised his
character, and procured him the esteem of all worthy and good men; and
such honours were paid his memory, as only his memory could deserve.
On the second of May, his corpse was with much ceremony interred in
Westminster Abbey, and the excellent author of the Tatler, has given
such an account of the solemnity of it, as will outlast the Abbey
itself. And it is no small mortification to us, that it is inconsistent
with our proposed bounds, to transcribe the whole: It is writ with a
noble spirit; there is in it an air of solemnity and grandeur; the
thoughts rise naturally from one another; they fill the mind with an
awful dread, and consecrate Mr. Betterton to immortality, with the
warmth of friendship, heightened by admiration.
As to the character of this great man in his profession, the reader need
but reflect on Mr. Colley Cibber's account here inserted, who was well
qualified to judge, and who, in his History of the Stage, has drawn the
most striking pictures that ever were exhibited; even the famous lord
Clarendon, whose great excellence is characterising, is not more happy
in that particular, than the Laureat; no one can read his portraits of
the players, without imagining he sees the very actors before his eyes,
their air, their attitudes, their gesticulations.
Mr. Betterton was a man of great study and application; and, with
respect to the subjects that employed his attention, he was as much a
master of them as any man. He was an excellent critic, more especially
on Shakespear, and Fletcher. Mr. Rowe, who was a good judge, and also
studied the same authors with deep attention, gives this testimony in
his favour, and celebrates, in the warmest manner, Betterton's critical
abilities. His knowledge of Shakespear's merit, gave him so strong,
and so perfect an esteem for him, that he made a pilgrimage into
Staffordshire to visit his tomb, and to collect whatever particulars
tradition might have preserved in relation to his history; and these he
freely communicated to the same friend, who candidly acknowledges, that
the Memoirs of Shakespear's Life he published, were the produce of that
journey, and freely bestowed upon him by the collector. Mr. Booth, who
knew him only in his decline, frequently made mention of him, and said,
he never saw him either off, or on the stage, without learning something
from him; he frequently observed, that Mr. Betterton was no actor, but
he put on his part with his clothes, and was the very man he undertook
to be, 'till the play was over, and nothing more. So exact was he in
following nature, that the look of surprize he assumed in the character
of Hamlet so astonished Booth (when he first personated the Ghost) as
to disable him for some moments from going on. He was so communicative,
that in the most capital parts, he would enter into the grounds of his
action, and explain, the principles of his art. He was an admirable
master of the action of the stage, considered as independent of
sentiment; and knew perfectly the connection, and business of the
scenes, so as to attract, preserve, and satisfy the attention of art
audience: An art extremely necessary to an actor, and very difficult to
be attained.
What demonstrated his thorough skill in dramatic entertainments,
was, his own performance, which was sufficient to establish a high
reputation, independent of his other merit. As he had the happiness to
pass through life without reproach, a felicity few attain, so he was
equally happy in the choice of a wife, with whom he spent his days in
domestic quiet, though they were of very different tempers; he was
naturally gay and chearful, she of a melancholy reserved disposition.
She was so strongly affected by his death, which was, in some measure,
sudden, that she ran distracted, tho' she appeared rather a prudent and
constant, than a fond and passionate wife: She was a great ornament to
the stage, and her death, which happened soon after, was a public loss.